Wandering
by Ciara in cotton socks
Summary: A middle-aged Dean Thomas must make his peace with the woman who made him sublimely happy and broke his heart in the space of a few short months.  He has put it off for long enough, and there simply isn't time to do so any longer.  Not for him.


**A/N: written for n a r r o w s k i e s's 'Write It Up!' Challenge. I do not own Ginny, Dean, or any other Harry Potter characters for that matter. They are the property of one J.K. Rowling.**

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It is a crisp autumn evening in Wolverhampton. The lazy sun is setting, lighting up the sky in an abstract portrait with a crimson-and-orange palette to match the crumpled leaves which crinkle as a gentle breeze ripples through them. The street is tranquil, devoid of any sign of life apart from a single stray cat sniffing at the wheel of a parked car. The neat, tree-lined avenue is a picture of suburban peace.

The curtains are drawn in the leftmost upstairs window of the second-last house on the right, even though the clock has barely struck six. The room is bathed in gloomy darkness and furnished simply with a double bed, a wardrobe and an old-fashioned trunk. A harsh halogen bulb flickers in a lamp beside the bed, the only reprieve from the interminable darkness. In the bed, buried deep within a nest of blankets, a figure stirs and raises its head.

The man is middle-aged, but old beyond his years, His hair, once a mass of soft black curls, has been reduced to a couple of salt-and-pepper tufts and his coffee-coloured skin is so lined that his face resembles a walnut. His chest rises and falls with serious effort and his eyelids flutter as he attempts to hold his weak eyes open long enough to peer at his battered gold wristwatch. A sigh puckers his lips into a disappointed scowl and his fist tightens around the small, round item nestled in his palm.

_She's not coming_, a small voice says in his head. The notion sends a painful pang through his frail form, and the motion sets off a body-wracking fit of coughing that lasts for several minutes and leaves his handkerchief stained with specks of blood. He doesn't have long, and he thought she would come. He clenches his fist tighter around the bauble in his hand as he stares desolately at the ceiling.

And then, miraculously, there is a soft scratching on the wood of his bedroom door and his heart leaps dangerously. He would recognise that knock anywhere. The door opens and framed in the light from the hallway is... _her_.

_Ginny_.

She is as effortlessly flawless as he remembers. The years have treated her with more kindness than they have shown him. Her face is still full of light and vitality, the skin crinkling around her intelligent brown eyes. She has gained a little weight since he saw her last, and her long red hair is streaked with silver. For all these subtle differences, however, she is still the vivacious adolescent he fell in love with. Her eyes are clouded by confusion as they attempt to adjust to the dim light in the bedroom. Then they fall upon his hunched form and her expression becomes a mask of shock.

"Hullo Ginny," he wheezes, each word taking a considerable effort. "Long time no see."

"Dean?" she asks, almost fearfully he thinks, and she takes a couple of tentative steps into the room.

"The one and only."

"I-I got your owl," she stammers, clearly troubled by his feeble appearance. "I didn't realise, I... h-how are you?"

"Dying," Dean replies bluntly. He coughs again and presses the handkerchief to his mouth. He sees Ginny wince as she spots the russet-coloured flecks scattered haphazardly across it and hastily tucks it into the pocket of his pyjamas, out of sight. The last thing he wants is for her to be uncomfortable around him. Her happiness has always been of the utmost importance to him. "Haven't got long... That's why I wrote to you."

"I-I'm sorry," Ginny gasps, and Dean hates that there is pity in her voice. He's had enough of her pity to last... well, a lifetime. "But why did you...?"

He is finding it harder to breathe now, so he motions dumbly for her to sit on the bed beside him. For a moment she looks doubtful, but then her expression clears and she perches delicately on the very edge of the duvet, her hands laced awkwardly in her lap. She swings her hair forward to form a curtain to shield herself from him.

"I have something for you," Dean says slowly, deliberately. He unfurls his clawed fist and extends it towards her. At first he thinks she will not take it, but then her curiosity gets the better of her. His lips form a half-smile at that; she has always been a curious little thing. Fragile and yet somehow ferocious. She tucks her hair behind her ear and glances with interest at the small, ornate button. Dean's heart leaps, but then he sees realisation in those chocolate-brown eyes and irritation puckers her brow. She looks at the button, but she does not take it. Instead, she gets to her feet and takes a couple of shaky steps away from him, raking a trembling hand through her fiery locks.

"Dean," she says in a low, pleading voice. "Not this again. We talked about this, at Lil and Teddy's wedding, remember? I told you to stop. I-I thought you understood."

"I did," he assures her. "I do. This is the last one, I promise. You remember it, don't you?"

Reluctantly, she leans in to inspect the small round button. She stares at it for the longest of moments, her eyes bright.

"I remember," she whispers. "The Yule Ball."

"Exactly," Dean nods, content that she can recall it. "You went with Neville, but he trod on your toes so much that you ended up storming out mid-dance..."

"And you found me sitting outside, freezing to death," Ginny adds, smiling at the memory. "And you conjured up a jacket for me, and we danced alone in the courtyard with no music."

"That was the first time I really saw you as something more than Ron's little sister," Dean tells her shyly. A rosy blush spreads across her cheeks and his chest twinges painfully. He thought this would be easier, that time would have stopped it from hurting so much. He was wrong. She is the same and yet different, and it _hurts_. She is his Ginny, but also some other, worldly woman who has seen things he can only dream of. He wonders if she ever thought about him when she toured the world, or if her new glossy life has no place for memories of old flames. She looks at him, and there is something in her expression which makes him think that there is, but then she shakes her head and the moment is gone.

"I-I can't do this," she says shakily, retreating once more. Disappointment riddles him to his infirm, damaged core. Why is she making this so difficult? Doesn't she realise why he is doing this? Doesn't she know that this is as hard for him as it is for her? Can't she see that every time she breezes back into his own personal atmosphere it kills him a little bit more inside?

"Can't do what?" he asks through clenched teeth. His heart flutters uncomfortably and his chest heaves.

"_This_," she hisses frantically. "Being here, seeing you, this... this bloody _button_! Dean, I have a life, a family. I love _Harry_, you know that."

"I- do."

"Then _why_?" Ginny says desperately. She sounds close to tears as she wrings her hands.

"Why what?" Dean counters. If he has to work hard at this, he'll be damned if she doesn't.

"Why have you refused to let me go?" she demands. She glares balefully at him.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean... I mean, turning up every few years out of the blue. I mean the knowing looks, the comments at Lily's wedding, the... the bloody box of buttons! Are you trying to make me feel guilty?"

"Guilty? Why would I want to make you feel guilty?"

"For not choosing you!" she replied shrilly. "For wanting Harry, for... for hurting you, for leaving you behind, I don't know! You're the one who's been torturing me all these years with those baubles, you tell me."

"I... you think I've been torturing you?" Dean asks, genuinely dumbfounded. "That's what you think the buttons are about? Making you feel guilty?"

"Isn't it?" she counters, and Dean is so surprised that a startled bark of laughter explodes from his wasting frame. He struggles to regain control of his body and concern mars Ginny's beautiful features. "Are you... alright?"

"I'm... fine," he manages to choke out eventually, his chest heaving with exertion. "I- just... I... you really thought that was what they were for? To... to make you feel bad?"

She nods coldly. Dean stares between her and the small gold button from the dress robes he wore to the Yule Ball, mystified. His Ginny would never have presumed something like this. He shakes his head in disappointment.

"Ginny," he says slowly. "I would never do that to you, never. The buttons were to help you to remember."

"Remember?"

"Yes. I know I was never enough for you- never brave or spontaneous enough for a firecracker like you. But I loved you more than anything, and you made me so happy. I just didn't want you to forget that when you were off travelling the world with the Harpies. That you didn't need to score goals to make people happy. That you could do it just by being you."

"Dean-"

"No, let me finish," he gasps. This is taking more out of him than he originally envisaged. "I... I guess I didn't think it through properly, but once I had started it was so hard to stop. Because you were off globetrotting and you were always in the papers with Harry, and you were leading this big, glossy fulfilling life. And I was still the same person I was at Hogwarts, and I know it was stupid and unfair of me, but I thought you were going to change and I just wanted you to... to remember how happy you could make someone without even trying."

"But you travelled too!" Ginny insists. Her eyes are bright, and Dean suspects that there are tears there threatening to spill over, but he also sees a spark of her old fiery determination. "One of those buttons, the one you sent on my nineteenth birthday, that came from Turkey or somewhere. You did things too, you lived, you-"

"I wandered," Dean interrupts softly, cutting her off mid-flow. Ginny stares questioningly at him. "You travelled. I wandered."

"What's the difference?" she challenges, and she is so reminiscent of the old Ginny, the one he loved, that it almost stops him from responding. She might as well be challenging him over a move he made in a game of wizard's chess against Seamus. He shakes his head to dislodge the notion and ponders her question for a long moment before answering.

"We wander for distraction, but we travel for fulfilment," he tells her bleakly. "You were trying to challenge yourself, opening yourself up to new experiences. For the longest time, I was just trying to distract myself from heartache."

"What changed?" Ginny asks cautiously.

"I got sick," he replies with a ghost of a smile. "The Healers said it was cancer, that there was nothing they could do. And I just thought, bugger that, I'm dying! There was no point in letting my life revolve around a brief romance at school anymore. You had moved on and finally I was able to."

"I'm glad," Ginny says softly. "Not about the cancer I mean, that's awful, but I'm glad you could make peace with what happened. I always hated knowing that I'd hurt you."

Something inside Dean bristles when she says this, and he has to bite his tongue to avoid saying anything rash or cruel. It's been happening more and more frequently of late. A side-effect of his condition, the doctors say, although he's more inclined to believe it's just him being a cranky old man. He studies Ginny carefully. She seems genuine, smiling gently down at him like she used to when they were alone together, but one question still rankles with him.

"If you hated hurting me," he says slowly, enunciating each word carefully. "Why did you send the buttons back? Even if it hurt you to see them, couldn't you have just given me that one thing? Couldn't you have just thrown them away or something, instead of sending them back to me?"

"I... Dean, I didn't know what they meant!" she gasps pleadingly, and the tears are spilling over now. "I thought... thought they were some cruel jibe, I thought if I sent them back you would stop. After what happened at Lily and Teddy's wedding, I thought you had. They stopped coming and- oh Merlin, is that when they... when they found the c-cancer?"

Dean nods tiredly. It is taking ever-increasing amounts of energy for him to stay focused on her tear-stained form.

"Oh Dean," she whispers sadly. "Why didn't you just tell me? Why did you wait until now?"

Dean shrugs his shoulders, an action which sends a ripple of pain jolting down his spine and into his hips. He hisses, and Ginny stares at him fearfully. "I didn't want you to see me like this," he says hoarsely. "I wanted you to remember the good times."

"And w-why has that changed? Why now?"

"I don't have long left," he tells her, flinching as she gives a startled gasp. "It's alright, I've accepted it. But you were so angry at Lily and Teddy's wedding when I turned up with the button from my Gryffindor Quidditch robes, and I hated seeing you like that so I didn't try to explain there and then. And then I got sick, and I didn't want you to see what I'd become. But I'm almost finished now, and I... wanted to make my peace with you once and for all."

His voice cracks slightly on the word 'peace' and it is a struggle to finish his little speech. Ginny sniffles slightly and reaches out a small, pale hand. She squeezes his and gently takes the button from him.

"Consider it made," she smiles tearfully, holding it close to her chest. Dean smiles too, even though it hurts to do so. She looks concerned and strokes his cheek almost fondly. "I-is there anything I can do to help?"

Dean shakes his head weakly and coughs into his handkerchief once more. He motions towards the door with his free hand.

"You've done enough," he wheezes insistently. "Thank you for coming Ginny."

"Are you sure I can't...?"

"I'm positive," Dean says, and then he hesitates.

"What is it?"

"Would you... no, no of course not."

"Dean, tell me!" Ginny says, almost commandingly. He heaves a weary sigh and points his finger in the rough direction of the trunk at the foot of his bed.

"I- thought- maybe-" It is getting harder to breathe. "I- thought... you could... take them... now- that... you know... the t-truth."

It is a sign of the recently renewed bond between them that Ginny does not even need to ask what the 'them' refers to. Wordlessly, she opens up the trunk and moves aside an ancient West Ham jersey and a leather photo album. She takes a quick peek inside a battered Bertie Bott's Every-Flavoured Beans tin and nods to herself before pocketing it. For of course it doesn't contain sweets, but buttons. A neat, multi-coloured pile of buttons of every shape and size. A timeline documenting her ability to make someone happy, and of how happy she was with him. She turns to Dean, who has receded further into his nest of blankets, and smiles sadly.

"I'd be honoured to have them," she whispers. Dean's face lights up, and for a moment she forgets that he is dying and sees him as a delighted sixteen-year-old revelling in her praise when he scored a goal in Quidditch practise. Then the moment passes and he is a withered shell of a man once more. She leans over and, as gently as she can, presses a kiss to his clammy forehead. "Thank you Dean, and I'm sorry for not understanding sooner. Goodbye."

He doesn't even have the energy to reply, but she takes the slight nodding of his head as a farewell. Biting her lip to avoid more tears from falling, Ginny turns away from him and leaves the bedroom. Downstairs, she Apparates home without pausing to think. Harry is waiting for her. He has made shepherd's pie for dinner.

Two days from now, they will receive an owl from Seamus Finnigan detailing Dean's funeral arrangements. She will cry, and Harry will be shocked, and she will spend several hours threading a tin full of buttons into a rough bracelet to wear to the service. She will drive to the graveyard instead of Apparating.

She will just want to wander for a while.


End file.
